


Craft the Stars

by colormesherlocked



Series: Kannazuki [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A little spooky, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Comfort Food, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Hinata Shouyou & Kozume Kenma Friendship, M/M, Mystery, October Prompt Challenge, Senpai-Kouhai Relationship, Youkai, but what’s halloween without spooks, hinata & kenma & lev clowning hours, iwaizuku is just tired, kannazuki, myserious!oikawa, oikawa puts a stop to it while being a little bitch, the no-god month, tired businessman!iwaizumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colormesherlocked/pseuds/colormesherlocked
Summary: Hajime is tired, hungry, and tireder still of missing the life he wasn’t able to make for himself. But on a humdrum day like many others before it, his life changes with the tinkling of bells.(Basically just gods and spirits and youkai clownery to celebrate October, the No God Month. To my Iwaoi buddies, who convinced me to give this pairing a try.)
Relationships: Haiba Lev & Hinata Shouyou, Haiba Lev & Kozume Kenma, Hinata Shouyou & Kozume Kenma, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Kannazuki [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987861
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Craft the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, not the sequel a few of you might have been waiting for. Life’s been a good bitch, but a bitch still. I’m gonna need more than train rides and short breaks to write the sequel to TIN, so it’s nowhere in sight, currently. Thank you for all your kind comments, I’ll... try to get to them before the end of the year.
> 
> As for this one, this is for you, Flampy baby. And dear, too, you hobbit, for being so supportive—and I guess Han and Mase, too, and everyone else who’s saved my sanity this year. Love you guys to pieces <3

Hajime was exhausted.

He tripped over a ridge in the pavement and amended that thought to: _very_ exhausted. The meeting had run late, Irihata-Buchou’d had his _own_ meetings to attend to, and as a result, everyone had been required to stay even later. If there was one thing Hajime resented the most out of adult life, it was the dumbass unspoken rule that you don’t leave the office before your boss.

The bright lights of a vending machine pierced his eyes as he passed. Squinting, Hajime managed to make out the maroon of a can of red bean soup, and his stomach growled. But honestly, he probably wouldn’t ever be hungry enough to fill his stomach with _that_ shit, so Hajime turned away, blinking, and stumbled on.

Did he even have food at home, though? He could get something at the supermarket near his house—no wait, it had to be closed by now. 

It was probably close to midnight. The flickering white of a street lamp agreed with him as it illuminated his watch face. His bag seemed to grow heavier as he watched the ticking hands, the thick manual and stacks of paperwork greedily sapping his energy—a million eager vampires, come out with the dark.

Hajime wasn’t a fanciful man, and that’s how he knew he was dangerously tired. Fuck, at this rate, he might stumble into the path of a car. It took an entire minute for him to realize the pedestrian light would never turn green unless he pressed the button, corroborating this thought.

 _Combini_ it was, then. After that, _sleep_.

If he even had the time, after he went over the day’s minutes and the manual he’d be using tomorrow to train this year’s enthusiastic recruits.

He passed a hand through his hair in frustration. It flopped down by his side, after, a silent drop where his loafers _clacked_ against the sidewalk with every step. 

When he’d graduated, fresh-faced and eager to join the workforce, he’d considered himself lucky to get into a company related to the sport he’d sacrificed so many years of his life to. But reality quickly asserted itself, and Hajime had realized—with first dismay, then anger, then resignation—that no matter how close he came to the ball, he’d probably never touch it again. 

It was partly because their company worked with various teams throughout the country, but only ever came close to their coaches, and the schools and investors that backed them; the biggest part of it was his hours, how shitty they’d been and still _were_. After 6 days a week of over 14 hour shifts, he was lucky if he had the energy to _sleep_. 

Hajime could feel his thoughts drifting into the downward spiral that would sometimes keep him up at night, rolling pointless whining around in his head. He shook it off, hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and walked a little faster. 

Maybe he’d reward himself tomorrow with a taxi ride home, if it got too late.

The weather was getting much colder now, the beginnings of true autumn starting to seep into the wind, lending it bite. Pulling his suit jacket tighter around his waist, Hajime gave himself a mental reminder to buy a weather-appropriate jacket—

Bells.

Bells? Crickets? 

Hajime stopped in his tracks, vaguely noting the way he almost swayed into the bushes lining the sidewalk.

Why could he smell food? 

The sound of tinkling bells—wind chimes!—grew louder, though still barely on the edge of his hearing; the smell of something hot and enticing rose with it. Confused but intrigued, Hajime followed his nose and ears, not giving a shit when they took him across empty roads and under the harsh light of street lamps. The trail headed down silent backstreets where, in this part of town, every other house had a patch of forest between it and the next. Hajime was already getting lulled into something like sleep by the rustle of bamboo leaves in the wind and the gently rising sound of crickets and chimes, even before the quiet murmur of voices met his ears.

When he turned a corner, the brush of reaching bamboo leaves tickling his bare neck, he saw—

 _Warm_ , his tired brain told him enthusiastically. There were other things, too: like the actual heat trailing out from under the bright teal curtains, the steam and smell of hot food rising with it; the sight of legs kicking under a raised bench, the split-second glimpses of laughing faces and gesturing hands.

But the glow around the traveling food stall ( _here_ , inexplicably, only a little outside his normal route home) was _warm,_ nothing like the ugly white of fluorescent lighting in his office, on the streets, glaring out from vending machines that only offered sugar and a mockery of food. Hajime was stumbling towards it before he even consciously chose to, noting and forgetting in the next instant that the stall went briefly silent.

He parted the curtains, and was immediately enveloped in warmth.

“Hello,” the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his _life_ said, almond-shaped eyes alight with something that looked like summertime, like humor and mischief and chaos, a match to tousled chestnut hair.

Hajime closed his mouth on silent words, clutching his bag in front of him with both hands. The smile, if anything, grew even warmer. The man behind the counter made a little gesture towards an empty spot on the bench, waving slim fingers Hajime instantly knew would handle a ball with grace and incredible skill

“Welcome to _Reiya_ , my humble _oden_ stall! Sit, friend! You look like you’re about ready to fall on your face.” 

Hajime sat. His bag dropped onto the ground in a little cloud of dust, and he immediately forgot about that, too.

“You can call me Oikawa! What can I get for you today?” 

“I—I’m Iwaizumi, it’s nice to meet… you?” 

He snatched back his hand, but the damage was already done. The small space inside the curtains exploded in hearty laughter, bringing awareness to the fact there were at least three other people to witness his fumble. 

He was bright red, he could already tell. Hajime stared at the countertop fixedly, waiting it out, and found himself quirking a smile, too. His shoulders—always tense—relaxed a fraction.

“Oi, oi, no scaring off my customers!” the proprietor—

( _Oikawa!_ his brain sang.) 

—scolded the laughing men at the counter, waving a ladle with pretend menace. One raised his hands, protesting his innocence. Hajime was still flushed, so he turned to him instead of trying to answer the original question. 

Burnt orange, like the sun setting over the horizon. Hajime had never cared for things like appearances, but even he could tell that was a very vivid shade. 

The man—

(Was he a man? A teenager? He looked quite young.) 

—was waving his arms wildly, gesticulating as he got caught up in explanations that soon drifted into a confusing tangent. There were two others sitting on the bench beside him: cat-like eyes flashed as he tilted his head to see, hints of molten gold in their depths. The other was very tall, all elbows and long limbs, his silver hair flashing in the warm light as he reached over the counter, lifting out condiments curiously.

“Knock it off,” Oikawa said, drawing Hajime’s attention away. His apron covered a very traditional—was that a kimono? “Hands off the merchandise!” 

Hajime saw maple leaves in autumn yellow and crimson on grey the color of cloudy winter skies before he jerked his eyes away. That was definitely a kimono, with a traditional—if archaic—apron on top. 

What an odd choice, if a tasteful one. 

“Aw, Oikawa-san, but we've been waiting forever!” 

He really didn’t care about outward appearances; he really, really didn’t. But he couldn’t make himself look away from the _colors_ , the way the light seemed to catch every shade, every glitter, every contour, sending flashes of curiosity and interest where he’d barely cared before. 

It was a lot like that feeling of being on the court, where the world narrowed down to the point between your hand and the ball, and everything else froze in place; a second lasted forever in full technicolor, a high definition landscape to explore at your leisure. Even though he’d never been able to decide if it was his imagination or not, Hajime remembered each of those moments like it was yesterday, a crystal clear image engraved in his mind’s eye.

Having those sharp colors and images here, now, where he’d been ignoring every call and text with the words ‘interested in a game?’ in them for years, settled him in ways he couldn’t begin to articulate. 

“And you’ll wait longer if you don’t keep your hands to yourself.” 

Hajime snapped back to attention when that striking smile turned his way again.

“Calm down, little business man,” Oikawa said, and winked cheekily. “We don’t bite, I promise. Well, Hinata might, and I only do if it’s consensual—“

_I do if it’s consensual._

Hajime totally didn’t feel his gut lurch at that or anything.

“Ehhh, who you calling a biter?!?” 

“—but Kenma only bites if he really doesn’t like you.” He frowned, index finger tapping his chin, and admitted, “I guess we do bite, huh.”

Everything the man was saying finally drifted through his starry-eyed filter, and Hajime did a double take. 

His eyebrows rising, he frowned back. “Who are you calling a ‘little business man’?” he asked, not actually offended, but getting there. The twinkle he got in return was suddenly incredibly irritating.

Rather than answer, Oikawa flipped a towel over the white cloth tied there to keep back his long kimono sleeves, and said: “Aren’t you going to order, Iwa-chan? The night’s young, but the sake is hot and the _oden_ is perfectly ready to eat. Would you like the house selection or to order separately?”

_’Iwa-chan’._

The lack of response was even _more_ irritating, but that? _Iwa-chan_.

Hajime took off his suit jacket to buy himself time to smother the unnecessary emotions welling in him, and rolled up his sleeves while idly taking in the countertop. Reacting would be giving this man—who appeared quite comfortable taking liberties as he pleased—the win. Hajime was many things, but okay with losing wasn’t one of them.

The wood of the counter top looked old, but not really from wear and tear—almost like someone had taken one of those really expensive, single-tree tables and sawed off part of it. 

Nice, if a little ostentatious, for a traveling food stall.

He looked up to order when his face was back to normal. “The house special,” he said, a little more tersely than he meant to. 

Oikawa was... staring at his arms. Hajime flicked a glance at them, but there were no pen marks or anything: just his forearms as they always were, still maintaining that hard-earned muscle that he sometimes wished would just fade; a layer of fine, dark hair. 

His watch had a new scratch, though. It was getting old, so he should probably add fixing it to his list of ten billion things he needed to get done this month.

Oikawa didn’t comment, once his eyes flitted away to his bubbling pots of food. 

Huh. Okay.

“Today we have _chikuwa,_ beef skewers, _satsumaage_ , _kinchaku,_ _ganmo, daikon_ , and _goboumaki._ And you can always add your favorites to the mix, though I’ll be charging you extra for it.” 

It was a little embarrassing, but it had been so long since he’d had _oden_ —or for that matter, home cooked food—that he couldn’t quite remember what any of those were.

“Ah…” Either Oikawa was a mind reader or just really good at reading people, because he quickly snatched up a menu (paper, or should he say parchment? Was that actual _calligraphy_ _art_?) and used his long chopsticks to point to the inked images.

“This one’s _ganmo_. It’s made from mashing soy beans and mixing in a variety of vegetables.” Oikawa indicated one of the square metal pots in their neat little rows, all steaming and bubbling away. Its contents were light brown and round, and about two centimeters thick. They smelled good, too. 

“It gets its name for its taste—it’s similar to wild goose, interestingly enough.” 

The cheerful yellow bells on the long bamboo shifted, pointing to the next image.

“ _Satsumaage_ , as you probably know, is just minced fish that’s deep fried, though mine have some octopus in them today. The outer—shall we say, blanket—of _goboumaki_ is made of the same thing, only it has burdock root inside.”

So he was getting an impromptu lesson. Okay. Hajime watched Oikawa’s mouth and sometimes the pictures, and found he really didn’t mind, no matter the way his stomach grumbled and complained.

“Today’s _kinchaku_ not only has _mochi_ inside, but some fresh shiitake that was delivered this morning as well! So that’s always good to finish off with. Let’s see…”

When he wrinkled his forehead in thought, he unconsciously scrunched his nose. Had he ever seen himself make that face? 

“The skewer is beef tendons, and today’s _daikon_ is from a special little town that makes them small but incredibly packed with flavor, so that will be a treat for you, I think.”

He should take a good look at himself in the mirror, and then never make that face again. That kind of expression should be made _illegal_.

The sunset-haired customer next to him started coughing, a weirdly choked sound. Hajime shot him a quick, covert glance and shifted a bit away, but—oh. He was just laughing. 

Weird, but whatever. 

“The _chikuwa_ is made from _tai_ today, and I’ve added my own flare to it, as it happens.” Oikawa rescued an oblong fish cake from the boiling waters and showed it to Hajime. He looked, and saw thin, clear noodles running out of the center of the _chikuwa_.

“It’s to imitate water!” Oikawa explained, wiggling it enticingly. Hajime saw a brown-spotted, offwhite blur some point before his face, and didn’t particularly care. He was much more interested in the way the light was hitting Oikawa’s eyes, turning them the warm brown of heated chocolate.

“Since _chikuwa_ were originally made to imitate bamboo, I thought, why not take it one step further and make a _s_ _hishi-odoshi_?” 

“You are so pretentious, Oikawa-san,” Cat Eyes droned, sounding very uninterested and distant. Oikawa tilted up his chin at this, flicking his head in a prissy little motion that shifted his bangs and made Hajime’s heart do a very uncomfortable lurch, like it was trying to jump out of his chest. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing! If I’m pretentious, at least I wear it well, _kitten_.”

 _If anyone looks like a kitten, it’s you_ , his mind purred. 

...What the _hell_. 

“I didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. I’m just saying you’re pretentious, because you _are_. Also, don’t call me kitten. Where’s my dinner?”

Hajime finally tore his eyes away from that _mouth_ , and eyes and bangs and a facial structure that had nothing to do with food, and shoved away the dumbass, impulsive things his mind kept urging him to say. 

“So demanding. It’s like you’re a paying customer or something.”

No, thank you. The last thing he needed right now was more shit taking up what little time he had, no matter how tempting it seemed. Food, then work, then _sleep_. 

“I’m… paying you? Like, I’m your customer, and I’m going to pay you?” 

The fishcake _did_ resemble a cut of bamboo, running water trailing out of its open mouth. It wiggled one last time—sending the ‘water’ shifting down another inch—before being withdrawn. Hajime looked up in time to see Oikawa fish out his dinner, lightning quick, and begin plating it. 

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Last time, Te—Kuroo was here, and he never brings the right offerings. I’m not gonna take responsibility for his laziness.”

‘ _Offerings’_?

“Oh yeah, he’s always skiving on the bill! Boss is a _cheater_.”

The food was arranged tastefully, the broth poured in, a touch of mustard on the rim; Oikawa handed him the fragrant bowl of hot pot, and smiled.

It was a quiet smile, a little different from the last. It felt, strangely, like hearing someone say: _Welcome home._

He leaned over the counter as he placed it before Hajime, the ends of the towel threatening to dip in the broth; the towel briefly fluttered before their faces in a sudden gust of wind. With the unexpected cover blocking them from view, the words murmured as Oikawa dipped his chin low were made deeper, more intimate:

_“I hope you enjoy it.”_

Hot steam—

(A whispered breath?) 

—brushed over the sensitive hairs on his left ear. A shiver worked its way down Hajime’s spine, and it took a lot not to react.

Then the towel was gone, Oikawa with it, both behind a rising cloud of steam. As if the director of his life’s narrative had just snapped _Cut!,_ Hajime was abruptly made aware of how terribly, painfully hungry he was.

“You should tell him that,” Oikawa was saying gleefully, but then Hajime was shoving the first bite into his mouth, and everything else disappeared. 

_God_. Was this what properly cooked food tasted like? Was this what he’d been exchanging for endless hours of work that he could barely stand? 

The food was burning hot, but Hajime’s tongue demanded _more_ , and he was happy to oblige. The taste was complex and deep, with a million intricate flavors going into a broth that was rich and delicious. The _oden_ was even better, the different kinds of fish easy to differentiate where convenience store _oden_ tended to all taste the same. The _shishi-odoshi_ was charming, the mix of vegetables complementary and satisfying, and the spice of the mustard was the perfect complement.

How the hell was he ever going to eat combini bentos again?

Hajime ate faster than he’d probably ever eaten in his _life_ , and when it was gone—the broth drained as well—he stared at the bowl for a moment, disappointed. 

If he licked it, would that be a compliment to the chef or would it just gross everyone out? 

“Oh, _my._ ” 

Startled out of contemplating the small bits of food in his bowl and how to get to them, Hajime looked up and immediately swallowed, hard.

He’d seen bedroom eyes look less inviting than _that_. 

“I see you enjoyed it, _Iwa-chan,_ ” Oikawa said, a suggestive note curling around a nickname he _hadn’t been given permission to use_. One sharp canine popped out of his mouth to bite down on a plump lower lip, and—

And Hajime was getting sleepy, was contentedly full in a way that seemed to seep through every part of his aching body, but his libido, which had been sleeping for the past few months, seemed quite ready to wake up. Even if he wasn’t ready for anything more than sleep tonight (or probably for a few months, yet, while they were in the beginning stages of negotiating with their recent client), there was no harm in playing, a little. 

Oikawa was certainly making it obvious he was open to it. 

He smiled up at the strange proprietor with his kimono and stall and food that tasted like heaven. Hajime made sure to push his... _appreciation_ for the food and for the _view_ into the corners of his mouth, with his gratitude touching his eyes. It might have been a trick of the light, but he thought Oikawa’s pupils might have dilated. 

“I did,” he said simply. “I enjoyed it very, very much. You’re very talented.” 

Oikawa’s mouth parted at that, and his pupils _were_ dilating, weren’t they. Hajime felt his smile turn to a pleased smirk. 

Matsukawa was always saying he had a killer smile when he tried. Seemed he was right.

“I’m—I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Oikawa’s Adam's apple bobbed, and it could have been the general heat, but his cheeks looked flushed. 

Silver snorted, then, loudly and rudely. “Get a room,” he grouched, bringing a grinding halt to whatever tension had been building. Hajime didn’t look away, but he saw silver flash from the corner of his eyes. “Actually, don’t do that. We’re still waiting for our dinner, senpai?? Are we going to be getting it this century?” 

“...You’re so impatient,” Oikawa replied, after a beat. He turned away briskly, breaking eye contact to scowl at Silver, who scowled right back. 

“Consider it punishment for being so annoying. Honestly, why is _Hinata_ being the least aggravating of you three right now?” 

The moment broken, Hajime dropped his elbow onto the counter and his chin onto his fist, sighing. For lack of anything better to look at, he began idly observing the resulting argument and the inside of the stall. 

The wooden plaques hanging down from the tent roof were strung up with twine, and when they clacked together in a passing breeze, it was a peaceful sound: unobtrusive, like the wind chimes at the four corners of the stall. 

“What, what does that mean?” 

Sunset sat up straight, which put him a good two heads over Cat Eyes, who was now resting his chin on his crossed arms. 

“He’s saying you’re usually the most annoying. Don’t worry about it, Sho— _Hinata_. I don’t think you’re annoying.” Cat Eyes turned his head to the side, a small grin flashing over his face. Sunset lit up like an actual sun, a beaming smile drawing attention away from his subsequent bouncing and arm flailing. 

Such expressive people. 

Hajime felt a sudden flash of longing for happier, less complicated days, of watching similar laughing and flailing and experiencing the warmth of companionship. He had to look away to compose himself. 

_(Those days are over.  
_ _You walked away first.  
_ _Why are you dwelling on the past, when you could focus on the present?)_

The calligraphy on the plaques was beautiful, naming the different types of _oden_ offered by this fascinating _yatai_. Hajime read their names, mouthing the ones he didn’t recognize, and tried to think how he could possibly have missed this place. 

“Ken—whoops, um. Kozume...san? This is why I love you the most!” 

That was the third time someone had hesitated and called another patron by a different name. 

Weird.

Hajime rubbed a drop of moisture off the countertop as the thought slipped past, recalling his initial impression of the place.

“...Why do I hate that so much—“

“What, I thought you loved _me_ the most, Hinata! That hurts my feelings!” 

_Reiya_ was a moving food stall, yes. But these kinds of _yatai_ tended to set up shop in one place for quite awhile before moving on, and this particular one, with its god-tier food? There was no way it could be lacking for customers.

“Haiba, nobody loves you the most. Better to accept it before you hear it from Yaku-senpai and get your heart broken, _again_.” 

“How’s he doing, by the way? I do love that little short-stack, but he never comes by anymore.” Oikawa was busying himself with his cooking, occasionally looking up to carefully wipe at the sweat on his face and toss back his bangs. He had yet to look Hajime’s way. 

_(Disappointed?)_

Maybe he’d just missed it. Hajime looked down at his chopsticks, still in his hand, and pressed his thumb into the lacquered indents going up the top of the wood. 

It seemed almost unreal, now that he was actually sitting here, that he’d found it in the first place. This was so far out from his normal route; the amount of coincidences and good timing needed to get him here was kind of ridiculous.

He wasn’t complaining, of course. This wasn’t the level of a dying man begging for water in a desert, for all Hajime could feel his soul and will to love shriveling up with every passing day working a job he, in the depths of that dying soul, despised. This was… 

This was like walking through the door of a house you knew like the back of your hand—with all its unique grooves and scratches and scars—when you’d never even set foot in it. 

This was like walking through an unfamiliar door and feeling like coming home. 

_And you’re tired_ , Hajime reminded himself. The chopsticks clacked as he set them down decisively—a movement in lieu of a hard shake to knock his brain back into alignment.

Being in this beautiful, warm place was like being in a dream; but dreams aren’t meant to last. Everyone had to wake up eventually, and Hajime knew the dangers of chasing a foolish dream all too well.

Eyes closing, he breathed in deep, taking in and locking away the scents of food, of people, the feel of steam against his cheeks. He locked them away safely in his memory, and drew out invoices and endless paperwork to begin the mental prep for another long night. When he opened them again—resigned, if not ready—the four others sitting around the bubbling pots had gone quiet.

Inexplicably, Hajime felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Planning to leave so soon?” Silver asked, large, pale green eyes unblinking. They looked almost… slitted? Hajime squinted, blinking rapidly, and they looked normal again. 

His imagination _had_ been rather active tonight, but… 

That didn’t explain the sudden feeling of being _hunted,_ targeted like he was on the court again, singled out by another team’s blockers. 

He sat up a little straighter, shoulders setting, and wished inanely that he still had his jacket on. 

“There’s no need to rush,” Sunset chimed in, flashing burnt orange and eerily bright eyes. “There’s plenty enough food to go around, you know?” His head had tilted to the side, unsupported by any hands, and Hajime noticed suddenly that he, too, was wearing a kimono—no, a _yukata_ , black, with that same orange spread across it in undulating patterns. The bright colors did little to take away from the disturbing look on his youthful face, shadows shaving down the edges to lend his features a dark cast. 

A creak, the wood under him groaning a complaint. Hajime had unconsciously scooted to the far edge of the bench, even before Cat Eyes leaned back, his neck and back bending in a high arch.

Hair the color of wheat sinking upwards into inky black, the long-hanging strands moved in accordance with the man’s turning head, revealing eyes flashing like an animal’s reflecting light. 

Hajime soon found himself under the focused attention of three, unblinking pairs of eyes, and—

 _Hungry,_ he realized abruptly. They looked _hungry._

The shudder that worked its way up the knobby curves of his spine traveled all the way to his hands, rattling the wooden eating utensils he’d just placed over the edge of his bowl. Hajime slowly, carefully moved his hands into his lap, hiding their trembling.

 _(Don’t blink.  
_ _It may seem crazy, but don’t blink.)_

Cat Eyes followed the movements of his hands, gold glinting in the flickering lamplight. “Stay awhile,” he said simply, rolling his head a little to the side. His eyes never moved. 

In the end, Hajime was the one to break the unspoken stare down when Sunset went low, leaning over the counter in his direction to look up at him, shadows still enveloping an otherwise harmless looking face. 

“It was good, right? If you want more, get some! We’re pretty hungry too, yeah?” Sunset licked his lips as he spoke, then left them parted. 

He looked hungry, for sure. Swallowing on a desert-dry mouth, Hajime decided that, no matter how dumb it seemed, it was time to go with instincts that had served him well on and off the court.

And it was getting late, anyway. Best to go before he fell asleep at the counter or something. 

“Thank you for the food,” he began to say, breaking that unsettling eye contact to reach down for his bag. “It was very—“

“ _Thanks for waiting_!” 

The aggressively cheerful call cut through the disturbing tension with all the subtlety of a hammer, shattering it completely with the loud _thud_ of ceramic hitting wood. Hajime looked up in time to see Sunset pinwheel backwards, a wave of soup jumping out of the bowl that had just been slammed in front of him.

It landed with a splash of delicious smell and incredible mess.

“Oikawa-saaaaaaan!” Sunset wailed, frantically batting at the front of his yukata, now with a new dark stain. “What was _that_ for?? So mean!” 

Another thunk, followed by a splash.

“Ehhhh, my egg fell out…” Cat Eyes grumbled, flopping forwards in his seat. 

The pressure of hungry eyes disappeared.

“You must be _very hungry!_ ” Oikawa said loudly, and… huh. Hajime curiously studied the lines around his eyes and mouth, which all said: _angry_. The smile on his face was definitely on the brittle side, and it didn’t come near to meeting his eyes.

“I _hope you enjoy_ the _food I made you_!” 

The last bowl slammed onto the ancient countertop, followed by a shriek of protest. There was the impression of something being… pulled back, then, for lack of a better word: a curtain, drawn shut over the intimidating darkness of a moonless night. Hajime felt himself breathing easier, like the air had stopped being so thin and was turning back to the same richness of the colors around him. He didn’t startle when a pale clay sake carafe was placed gently before him, a sharp contrast to the grumbles echoing to his left.

“Sorry about them,” Oikawa told him softly, the smile on his face turning sincere. “They’re just hungry.” A sake cup was placed, next; Hajime glanced to the edges of a yukata sleeve, slightly wary, then dropped his eyes to the cup.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said evenly, and it was only partially a lie. _What the_ fuck _was that,_ was actually on the tip of his tongue, but his ingrained politeness refused to let it escape. 

And that hair-raising feeling was already fading from memory, so Hajime was feeling more stupid than anything.

Fuck, he was _so tired_. 

“No, really. That was very rude of them, and uncalled for besides.”

Oikawa’s hands weren’t rough, like he’d half expected. They were practically flawless, actually, skin devoid of scars and calluses as they delicately poured sake into the small _ochoko._ His nails were perfectly manicured, too, and the small part of Hajime that had seen volleyball fingers and _wondered_ , felt a hint of disappointment. 

And wasn’t he a chef? Chefs tended to have similar hands across the board, covered in silvery-white scars and dark red oil burns, among other injuries. How did someone who regularly dealt with hot water—

Hajime abruptly realized he was being poured _sake_ , when he had work to do before bed and knew _exactly_ how easy it would be to pass out if he drank it.

Immediately waving his hands, he fumbled for his bag, protesting, “Thank you, but I really couldn’t—“

“Now, now, Iwa-chan,” the presumptuous asshole sang, “this one’s on the house! Drink, drink! You look like you could do with some loosening up, anyway.” 

Hajime, wallet and bag in hand, caught the over exaggerated wink thrown his way, and decided it was _really_ time to go. 

“Thank you, but _no_ ,” he stated firmly, sliding his way off the stool. Ears closed to further complaints, Hajime rifled through his wallet, ruefully musing it’d have to be a bit before he ate out again, if he wanted to make it to the next paycheck.

“How much do I owe you?”

A couple one-thousand yen bills. A five-hundred yen coin, a handful of hundreds and smaller change. Sighing quietly, Hajime quickly recalculated. 

At this rate, he’d be lucky if he could make it till Friday. Re-signing the lease on his apartment had been a hard decision, but ultimately, he was a practical man: Convenience would always trump comfort, and there was nothing more convenient than a five minute walk to the nearest station. If that meant missing a few meals here and there, it was worth it.

The full carafe of sake rolled a rough base against smooth wood, painting invisible circles on its surface. Oikawa’s fingers continued to twirl as Hajime looked away from his too-light wallet to meet his eyes. The quiet grinding sound turned to the hum of white noise, bringing about that strange feeling again, of the volume of the world being turned down.

Oikawa flicked a glance at his customers, then back. There was no question in his eyes, but when the man leaned forward, crooking a finger for Hajime to do the same, his sinking stomach told him there was probably a very good reason he’d never seen this stall before now, or at least been told about it.

His dad always liked to complain about the ancient looking restaurants and _izakayas_ that didn’t list prices, because the bill always ended up being astronomical. Good food, but barely worth the price.

And he hadn’t seen a single yen symbol on any of the wooden plaques. If Oikawa was trying to save an underpaid businessman the embarrassment of not having enough cash on hand… 

Well, if he was about to be robbed blind, at least he could say it was the best meal he’d had in recent memory.

Pressing his hands against the counter for support, Hajime leaned forward, bringing his face close enough for Oikawa to—

“Just this.”

—turn his face, slightly, pulling it away from its intended trajectory. Hajime, confused, allowed himself to be pulled… straight into a kiss.

_Warm._

Someone whistled: a muffled sound, quickly stifled. 

The feeling of being kissed wasn’t foreign to Hajime, but… it’d been a long time. A _really_ long time. Even as Oikawa pulled him in, slotting their mouths together further, Hajime was tumbling down the path of memory, pulling with him the new one being formed with every movement of soft, eager lips and surging want.

Images shot across the blank spaces of his mind, shooting stars dropping snippets of heated moments, quiet moments, of moments where stress and the frustration of a life going nowhere he’d ever wanted it to go disappeared under the heat of another body. 

_You’re lonely,_ a passing meteor mourned, searing the unmistakable knowledge of the dates and times since _anything_ in his mind’s eye. _You’re lonely, and it’s been too damn long._

For the first time in a long time, he _wanted._ Tangled memory or not, loneliness or not, Iwaizumi Hajime wanted, desperately, to throw away years of hard work to take home the proprietor of a mysterious stall on a Wednesday night, and lose himself in the wonders of the firmament.

He hadn’t been selfish for… a really fucking long time. Was it too much to ask, to have this one thing for himself? 

_(You chose to give it up, yes._  
 _But what’s been taken away can be taken back.  
_ _Why not take what you want when it’s right in front of you?)_

Gently—regretfully—Hajime pulled away. There was a moment, just a moment, when their lips were about to separate where he swayed in, nearly recapturing that perfect, _delicious_ mouth, but. 

_But_ , no.

“Thank you for the food,” Hajime said carefully. The small stack of bills he lay on the counter looked ridiculous, after everything he would be walking away with tonight; he left it anyway, only a little surprised when he didn’t receive protest.

He didn’t look up.

His jacket almost felt too-small as it settled over his shoulders, pulling tight against muscle and bone that had grown languid in the comforting heat. He pulled it tight and buttoned it closed anyway, even as he slid the rest of the way off the bench and onto his feet. Bag similarly zipped closed, Hajime acknowledged he was stalling only after every one of his belongings had been fiddled with.

It was time to go home. 

He probably should have walked away, right then and there. This dream had been a beautiful one, warm and gentle and kind—the likelihood of another like it was too fantastical a possibility to trust, and he didn’t dare hope for another. Best to step back into reality and let the memory fade to something distant and pleasant, where the lack of a repeat would hurt less.

He’d let volleyball stay a dream until it grew rancid and bitter, and he would never make that mistake again. 

He should have walked away… but he didn’t. 

Hajime looked up.

“The pleasure was all mine, Iwaizumi Hajime,” Oikawa said, the curve of his mouth promising all the things Hajime could never allow himself to have. Elbows resting on the inner counter, flashing leaves brilliant yellow and red, the beautiful man balanced his chin on his hands and looked up at him from under thick lashes. 

Chocolate brown eyes danced with the light of the lanterns reflected within them, and went heavy-lidded with meaning. They caught him their spell, threatening to hold him forever in the space of an eternity, trapped in a world of stars. 

“Come again soon.”

The wind fluttered through the teal curtains, sending the material to gently caress the skin of his cheek. 

_You’ll be back_ , the touch seemed to say. _And we’ll be here waiting_. 

—

The tinkling of wind chimes and crickets followed him all the way to the main street. When the occasional street lamp became a long line of harsh, ugly white light, the sounds disappeared, taking with them what little warmth he’d managed to preserve.

...Well, nothing gold can stay, and all that.

Hajime sighed, deep and regretful. The pedestrian light of the crossing stayed stubbornly red, and he didn’t bother to press the button. 

He would go home, shower, work, then sleep. He’d been doing the same thing for more years than he cared to count; today would be no different. 

Already his brain was filling with reports and numbers and calculations, little mental notes piling on top of each other now that he’d let the floodgates open. Because he was still feeling a little sorry for himself, Hajime allowed one more, even deeper sigh. 

Then the button was pressed, the light turned green, and Hajime headed for home. 

As he walked, down the silent streets devoid of laughter, crickets or bells, the wind kicked up, tossing up a little tornado of leaves down the middle of the street. He tracked it with his eyes as he passed, watching the leaves twirl upwards before gently sinking down. 

They were yellow and red, the leaves. Funny, how you could suddenly start noticing things you’d never noticed before.

Shaking away the thought, Hajime trudged on, letting the memory of an already-fading dream flutter away with the breeze.

_(You’ll be back, and I’ll be here waiting.)_


End file.
